


Still Asleep, Still Dreaming

by Katzedecimal



Series: Apres La Mort [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherhood, Brothers, Fluff, Gen, Lunch, Marriage, silliness, talking about Dr. Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:17:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmes brothers were making a sincere effort to cut down on their squabbling.  That meant avoiding triggering subjects such as Mycroft's weight, Sherlock's health, Mycroft's work, Sherlock's work, Mycroft's entitlement, Mycroft's privilege, Mycroft's abuse of power, Sherlock's addiction, Sherlock's behaviour, Sherlock's experiments... Which didn't leave them a lot to talk about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Asleep, Still Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Talimenios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talimenios/gifts).



> For Talimenios, who needs something fluffy. Set in the same 'verse as _Burning Bridge, The Gyre, Lonnnnng Weekend_ and _Experiments._

They were an unusual picture. Two men sat at a table for two, but their chairs were turned so that only their right sides were presented to each other. The table had an aura of hostility that was..... only partly accurate. 

Mycroft was studying the menu, even though he had already ordered. Sherlock didn't look up from his phone, his fingers pecking off a text message. The silence stretched out, seeming to increase the atmosphere which was... only partly discomfited. 

In fact, they were rather more at ease in each other's presence than appearances would suggest. They preferred to face each other obliquely instead of directly, a position they reserved for formal business. Both preferred companionable silence to small talk. They weren't very good at small talk; both would agree it wasn't their area. 

They were also making a sincere effort to cut down on their squabbling. That meant avoiding triggering subjects such as Mycroft's weight, Sherlock's health, Mycroft's work, Sherlock's work, Mycroft's entitlement, Mycroft's privilege, Mycroft's abuse of power, Sherlock's addiction, Sherlock's behaviour, Sherlock's experiments... Which didn't leave them a lot to talk about. 

Mycroft's phone chimed. Reflexively, he took it out and read the text, then rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to throw it across the room. "There's five months' effort I shan't see again. All that work wasted because some idiot decided to stir the pot with a video." 

However, Stupid Human At Work Today stories were always reliable. "Astonishing how often aggressive self-aggrandisement is at the root of human stupidity," Sherlock commented.

"A cursory review of archive of Darwin Awards would concur."

"John had a hostage situation very nearly defused when one of the constabulary took a sudden overdose of testosterone. Couldn't have a mere _civilian_ taking the glory."

That was the other reliable topic: Doctor John Hamish Watson. Talking about John was almost always safe and could even be used to snap Sherlock out of a bad mood: Instantly, the sharp look would vanish from Sherlock's eyes, leaving a softer glint, and some of the tension would leave his face. It worked like a charm, every time. "And is the man still walking? I cannot imagine anyone calling the good Doctor a 'mere civilian' and getting away with his shins intact."

"It was his own fault," Sherlock replied, "He put his chin in the path of Lestrade's knuckles."

"Lestrade punched him? That sounds unlike him."

"Obviously it was Lestrade; it was his badge I pinched."

Mycroft shook his head and managed to summon a disapproving purse to his lips, sternly keeping them from spreading into the grin they were much more partial to. "Of course you did, continuing to ignore that impersonating an officer of the law **is** a crime, as is assaulting an officer."

"And **you're** still stating the obvious."

_'Mycroft states the obvious, Sherlock points it out, twelve points.'_ The thought skittered across Mycroft's mind and derailed the retort on his tongue. Sherlock was grinning. "He gets into your head, doesn't he," he murmured.

"And then takes up residence," Mycroft agreed with an exasperated - but nevertheless amused - eyeroll, "I already **have** a conscience, I don't need yours as well."

"Was it bingo or the points tally?"

"Bingo," Mycroft admitted. 

Sherlock chuckled, "I assure you, it's a mere fraction of what I live with on a daily basis. Even when he leaves, he's not gone."

"Have you considered the possibility that he is some sort of cerebral parasite?"

"Or maybe he's a meme. Does he live in the same part of your brain?" Sherlock asked curiously and gestured towards his temporal lobe, just above and behind his ear, "I always hear him from around here."

"No, further back and on the right," Mycroft replied.

"Hm, interesting."

"A new experiment, perhaps?"

"Find out how many other heads John has infected and in what areas of the brain he's taken up lodging."

"Perhaps he is akin to those devil and angel representations of conscience and rebellion?"

"Hm... Devil, angel, John... No," Sherlock shook his head finally, "Doctor and Soldier, though, definitely."

Mycroft nodded, "I have noticed that. He shows considerably more confidence in his soldier role, does he not?"

"I believe the colloquial term is 'levelling up'," Sherlock agreed, "It's quite astonishing, watching him change like that. For a while there, I wondered if he had a dissociative identity because the change is so dramatic."

" _Yes!_ " Mycroft leaned forward, eyes lit with interest, "I saw that the first day I met him! First I was talking to a rather meek little lost lamb, then ***BAMF!*** he was a _completely_ different person!" Sherlock started laughing. "...What?"

"You, calling John a BAMF."

Mycroft tipped his head, puzzled, "Does it mean something?"

"It's an acronym, B.A.M.F. John gets it a lot from his fans. It stands for Bad-Ass Motherfucker." Mycroft rolled his eyes and Sherlock laughed harder. "The thing is, I honestly can't think of a more accurate description for him."

The Holmes brothers prided themselves on their eloquent knowledge of the language and preferred to plumb the depths of their extensive vocabularies rather than resort to common cusswords. So it said something about both them and John Watson when Mycroft was forced to admit, "Neither can I."

"The man's a terror," Sherlock said, "People just have no idea. The little lost lamb in the wooly jumper is an extremely cunning disguise."

"I understand his Internet fans have likened him to a hedgehog."

"He can get very prickly if I don't keep my experiments off the cutting board, I can tell you that."

Mycroft chuckled and sipped his port. "Married life suits you," he commented and gestured towards Sherlock's hand, "Your ring has healed quite well. It looks very real."

Sherlock glanced down at his tattooed finger with a little smile, "Yes, I'm rather impressed at the artistry. John gets quite a few compliments on his."

"I would think. The pattern is very nice. But I'm surprised you chose not to replicate your original rings?"

Sherlock shook his head, "The plain bands were just for disguise. These were the real rings we found in Oslo. We both liked the pattern and both of us were quite disappointed when we realised that they would be impractical for our then-intended purpose."

"It was quite an excellent disguise. I was very impressed. It was _six months_ before I worked out that his wife wasn't actually his wife."

Sherlock beamed with pride in his spouse, "I would never have thought of that as a disguise. It was brilliant, just brilliant. So simple and yet so effective. Nobody suspected. And he was entirely correct about my ring protecting me in the conservative countries, although I had to call him 'Joan' whenever someone asked about my wife."

Mycroft laughed richly. "How is he taking that? I'm aware he had some concerns regarding perceptions."

"Mostly idiots saying 'I told you so,'" Sherlock shrugged, "He chinned a few of the worst offenders, just about everybody else has gotten over it. They're taking the drylining bill out of Anderson's pay." 

Mycroft chuckled again. Then his phone chimed again and he scowled at it, "Can't leave them alone for ten minutes without them squabbling and kicking over the other kids' politics..."

Sherlock snorted and grinned. "Is that why you never pursued fatherhood?" he said brightly, "Have enough with playing Super-Nanny to the dignitaries?"

"Ha! Yes, sadly, I am unable to send them to bed without banquets." Sherlock snickered again and Mycroft grinned. 

Then Sherlock's phone chimed. He read the texts and frowned, disgruntled. "John. Says he'll be late tonight, patient took an aneurism in the surgery, it's touch and go." He texted a reply then frowned and opened his to-do list, "I'll order take-away for tonight. He likes Thai curry after events like this. Mind you, if it goes bad, might do better to ask Mrs. Hudson to do up some of her bubble-and-squeak. Tone of his texts indicates that it might. Maybe a movie, something fluffy... He likes fluff after a rough day... _Stardust_ should do the trick."

"You'll be leaving, then?"

"Sorry to cut it short," Sherlock said, "He always feels better if I'm playing my violin when he gets home, after a rough day."

"Still asleep, still dreaming," Mycroft smiled.

"Hmph, yes, just having a bit of a nightmare," Sherlock agreed, "Try again next week?"

"Certainly." Mycroft sipped his port and watched his brother swirl off to take care of his spouse, feeling a touch of... well, alright, _envy._ Yes, he envied Sherlock - having a career that he enjoyed, friends whom he trusted, a soulmate he treasured and would do anything to please and to keep safe and who loved him warts and all. It seemed strange that his contrary, wayward brother would be someone's Mr. Right, but he filled John's needs and made him as happy as John made him. Best of all, John's healing influence had even managed to soothe the relationship of the brothers, so that they could enjoy lunch and even laugh together. 

Oh yes, he envied Sherlock and sometimes he wished he had even a quarter of his little brother's happiness. But not jealous, no, never jealous. For unlike certain maniacs whose names were not worthy even to think, he would never, ever wish to take his brother's happiness away.


End file.
